


GO Kink Meme Fills

by KindListener



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dirty Talk, Kink Meme, M/M, Multi, Other, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 03:09:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19076260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KindListener/pseuds/KindListener
Summary: As far as he could tell, the kink meme for this, recently popular, book is about eight years old. The author has no idea what to do about all these unfilled wishes...and then proceeded to fill them, anyway.





	1. Marche Slave

**Author's Note:**

> “Crowley has this... THING he does. Out of nowhere, in completely random situations, he leans over and starts whispering dirty, dirty things in Aziraphale's ear. Then he moves away and continues on as if nothing has happened. As you can imagine, this makes Aziraphale a LITTLE frustrated.”

It was a proper concert. The kind with orchestras and choirs and...Crowley being, unimaginably, bored. If he wanted music, he had CDs at home, nevermind the wealth of music on his phone. Still, he came here to accompany Aziraphale so he couldn’t complain. After all, it was his decision.

Aziraphale, however, sits with his legs crossed and his fingers interlaced, in his lap, swaying to a rather upbeat piece by Tchaikovsky. Lovely man, lovely man, when he was alive. Crowley leans against Aziraphale, his glasses hiding his ravenous appetite as well as his dubious intent.  
“Angel?” He murmurs and he gets a small hum in response. “I want you to, mercilessly, fuck me. Pull my hair as you rock into me. Slap my backside as you make me take your cock.” Aziraphale reaches for the programme and places it over his groin, mostly in preparation at this point. Crowley makes an undecided noise. “Or. I could fuck you. I could have you screaming my name while I choked you out. Begging for mercy as I fucked your mouth. Fill you up with my come. Oh, yes, angel... Make me come...” A round of applause for the piece but the angel is left in speechless, watching Crowley disregard everything he just did and said.

They break into the bathroom, finding an empty stall and occupying it. Crowley shoves down the angel’s pants and the blonde presses his palms to the wall of the stall for stability. The demon makes quick work of his zipper as he runs his hand along the soft, sweet curve of Aziraphale’s ass.  
“You’re insatiable, Crowley. Really? In the middle of Tchaikovsky?” He demands but his anger melts away when a slick finger presses into his entrance, then a second and a third, slowly working his open. His frustration spent, the blonde sighs, needing it a little rougher. “Crowley, my dear, would you mind pulling my h—” But it’s just fine as he pushes in, Aziraphale’s soft, syrupy insides make the demon lose his shit. He reaches forward, burying his fingers in the angel’s hair, bringing him up so his chest presses against the angel’s back. He wraps a hand around Aziraphale’s throat, not applying pressure but supplying enough of a threat. With his other hand, he catches a pink, pebbled nipple between his fingertips, squeezing, experimentally.

The angel whimpers, feeling Crowley twitch inside him as he drives Aziraphale to oblivion, thrust by thrust.  
“C-Crowley. Touch me.” He whines and the demon reaches down, wrapping long, slender digits around the angel’s arousal.  
“Of course, dear angel.” He chuckles, darkly, against his ear, nipping his neck as he starts at a relentless pace, his other hand pushing him back down, still holding onto soft, blonde locks of his hair. He bucks into him as if they world’s about to end (again) and Aziraphale throws his head back, relishing in the pain that shoots through his scalp, paired with the hot, burning pleasure through his groin. Crowley’s thrusts become short and shallow as he scores dark crescents into his angel’s flesh, his back now striped with red. As Crowley tries, desperately, not to come just yet, Aziraphale moans, loudly.  
“Crowley, oh, Crowley. Fill me, please. I’m so close.”  
“As you wish, my angel.”

Crowley continues his onslaught, coming when the angel tightens due to his own orgasm. Still moving inside Aziraphale, the demon rides out his own orgasm, come filling the angel, deep and full.  
“I’m fucking you so much harder when we get back to mine, angel.” Crowley hisses, grabbing onto the angel’s hair so hard he could scream. Aziraphale’s come spurts onto the stall door and he waits, panting, as Crowley finishes up filling him with his own thick come. Both finish, panting and sweaty, before they manage to zip themselves up, splash some water on their faces and head back out.

The reception is silent. They broke up for tea and biscuits just a few moments after the angel and the demon disappeared. Since then, there wasn’t much noise to distract them from the slapping of skin on skin and Aziraphale’s lewd moans. All staring at them in embarrassment and shock. A swift exit was to be made. After that, Tchaikovsky became not a bad memory but one that Aziraphale would think on and then blush.


	2. Accidental Affection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley/Aziraphale — One of them has to go away for a long time (I'm talking YEARS). What's the first thing they do when they see each other again? Have frantic, fully clothed, holy-shit-I-fucking-MISSED-YOU frottage. Against a wall. Somewhere semi-public. And they come in their trousers.

The years had been long. Long, freezing, lonely years for the two angels. They’d never admit it to each other but they needed one another in the worst way.

1895\. Crowley leaves at the start of the year, saying he has to torment a Mister Oscar Wilde. In Aziraphale’s opinion, it seemed to be a gross injustice, even if Michael had ordered the same mission of him. (Picture of Dorian Gray was one of his favourite stories, of course. He related so closely to the character of Basil Hallward.) It seemed that Satan and the...Big Boss couldn’t decide what to do with people with a...different taste in romantic and/or sexual partners, to put it nicely. Arrested and to be tormented by a demon, all for performing an (apparently, debatably) natural act on a consenting, human partner. According to Michael, Aziraphale had his chance with Lord Byron, earlier in the century so this one had to be left to the gentlemen (and women) Downstairs. Crowley would return, in 1900.

This time period of five years wasn’t the longest they’d been apart but the fact that it was planned made Aziraphale dread it even more. There was no chance of Crowley appearing on his doorstep, one hot, Summer night or thundering down the icy road to pick him up, one sudden, cold, Winter evening.

Finally, the day he comes back. The deed is done. On the last day of November, the tell-take squeak of snakeskin shoes taps up the steps of Aziraphale’s bookshop. A knock on the door.  
“Sorry, but we’re quite closed—” He begins, pulling up the blind from the window only to see the bright shine of Crowley’s glasses.  
“Guess I’ll take my business elsewhere.” He jokes, a rare, warm smile gracing his lips.

Barging up to Aziraphale’s room, the lights on and the curtains open, the demon shoves him against the window, stripping off his waistcoat, his shirt and his pants. The demon’s long, talented tongue snakes over his lips and into his mouth. The angel wants to say something. Wants an explaination. Wants...something but everything moves too fast. Soon, Crowley’s hips roll against his own and he’s whining in frustration, grabbing at his fiery hair and whipping off his glasses to stare into those golden, slitted eyes. The demon palms his way down Aziraphale’s chest, feeling the erratic rise and fall of his breathing as the brunette pulls him closer.

“Crowley, I—”  
“Quiet, angel.” Crowley hushes him, breathily, grabbing onto both of their clothed cocks.  
“N-No, Crowley— Ahh... I need an explaination as to whaaaat... Mmnn...” Pre-come is, already, dampening the front of Aziraphale’s white briefs. “It— It’s been so long and I— I can’t control— Crowley, oh gosh...” The moans as Crowley continues to work both shafts in his hands. Both organs are hot and hard and, God, the angel consumed him. His scent of crushed lavender and old books. His taste of the luxury fruit tarts. His sight of an embarrassed blush and salty-sweet sweat on his, usually, pale skin. He’s missed this; the petty, fucking arguments followed by messy sex that tied up all the loose ends.  
“Aziraphale, fuck, yessss...” Hissing against the crook of the angel’s neck, Crowley bucks up into his hand, into Aziraphale, feeling him leaking more and more.  
“Crowley, dear, I’m not...going to last...much longer.” The angel pants out through deep, laboured breaths.  
“Fuck... I’m close, too... I wish, I could come inside. Grind my cock into you, angel, and fill you—”  
“God, Crowley, don’t— Oh, gosh. Oh, gosh. Oh, gosh. Mmmn... Ohhh...” Watching and hearing the angel’s whimpering, shivering orgasm, the demon groans and shudders himself.  
“Fuck, yes... I missed you. Been fucking my hand for five years. Wanted your lips around my— Ahh... Az-Az-Aziraphale...” His hips buck up as he spends himself, not even out of his tight leather trousers. With both panting and moaning in the aftermath, it was probably not a comforting thought — especially not to the angel — to see the number of people staring out of their windows to see him blushing and spent under the demon. For Crowley, however, this was not a problem. In fact, it was quite the thrill, something to tap into at a later date.

After that, any shenanigans involving open curtains and Crowley would draw a small smile from the book collector, not that it was a sore spot or a bad memory but...just because the fallen angel had admitted it.

“I missed you...”

**Author's Note:**

> Copyright © 2019 by Charlie E. Drake  
> All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.


End file.
